It's Always You
by AvianInk
Summary: Shortly following The Decimation, Bruce disappears. Natasha's not going to sit back and let the affliction consume him. (Brucenat Week '19 4/7)


**[A/N] **Here's my fix it for the atrocity that was Professor Hulk, because that should've never happened (not with the way Bruce has been set up in the MCU). This will probably be one of the very, very few fics from me hereon out that is Endgame-complaint/mainstream MCU (more aptly called the Marvel Cinematic Multiuniverse now) compliant. For my opinions on Endgame, keep up to date with my blog. There's an essay coming.

* * *

This would not happen to her again. She's done losing, done witnessing loved ones suffer, even if that's at their own hand. Especially if it's at their own hand. As long as she's alive and kicking, that's not going to happen.

Bruce isn't going to do this. Not again. Not to her. Not to himself.

For someone adept at going off the grid, he's remarkably easy to find. It takes only a couple hours via plane and car to track down the research center he's retreated to. According to her findings—and inquiries to Tony—the Californian university is one of the few labs still operating with gamma radiation following The Decimation. Its continued work isn't the problem; Bruce being here is.

Getting in proves to be a far simpler task than it should. Human security is minimal. Her biggest impediment—aside from what she plans to say—is restricted keycard access. That, she surpasses by passing herself off as a researcher from McGill—another one of the universities still on its feet. She catches a grad student on her way back from a late lunch and finds the young woman more than willing to provide assistance.

Her guide offers a loaner lab coat from the department's stock of spares and, thankfully, doesn't inquire about the science Natasha claims to conduct. The questions that come are much easier to answer and, in some odd way, don't taste like sour deception when she responds. The woman inquires about the relief of finding out about Bruce's survival, comments on how the world was shaken and will never settle the same, asks—really asks—how Natasha's handling everything.

"I'm taking things one day at a time," Natasha tells her as they swipe into a buffer room between the hallway and lab.

"I think that's the best any of us can do right now. Baby steps forward." Melancholy dampens the woman's grin to something bittersweet. She averts her gaze, gestures to the locked lab door and says with a tinge of sheepishness, "I don't have access to his lab specifically, but I'm sure if you knock he'll—oh." She looks at the barrier as though it's interrupted her. "I suppose I could've knocked for you. I'm sorry."

"No. Thank you." No matter how strained it might be, she tries to muster a slight smile for this woman and the kindness she's spared. That's the very least she can do in recompensing the suffering earth.

Her escort returns the gesture with a little nod and exits from the way they came. Before one door has closed, Natasha's banging on the other. If this had been another time—something prior to five years ago—she'd think her force excessive. There's surely a more efficient way in—there usually is when there's a locked door—however…

Hell, if this had happened even a year ago, she wouldn't be here in the first place. She wouldn't have the option. But she does now and, dammit, she's cursing herself for standing in a borrowed lab coat and not just breaking in to begin with—

A lock clicks and the metal barricade yields. In its vacancy, she finds Bruce.

Sleeplessness stains the undersides of his eyes in a faint purple, the color of an almost-faded bruise. Despite not losing any weight, his cheeks sink inward, as though the world slowly siphons his energy for its strength. He must see the same reflecting from her to him. They're both a wreck, but they're both here. It came so close to not being that way.

"How long were you planning on hiding here?" It's intended as a tease but feels heavier on her tongue, like metal.

"Um…" He casts a worried look over his shoulder, toward the machines that loom like dragons guarding their keep. He emerges from the windowless lair into the narrow room with her and shuts the beasts away. "I'd invite you in, but I don't want to expose you to anything."

That's not incredibly concerning. Not at all.

Staving off an accusational tone, she asks, "Is it gamma?"

The twist of his lips and avoidance of his eyes is the loudest confirmation she could get.

"Why are you doing this?" She wants to hold him, feel his face between her hands and stay still until she memorizes his pulse and the way he sees her, how he doesn't just look at her but for her. She could also smack him for what he's doing, but that's a marginally weaker impulse.

"Half the world was wiped out. Billions of people."

"I know." All too well, she knows.

"And you're doing something about it." He counters. "Rocket's doing something about it. Rhodey, Carol, Okoye, Wakanda—they're all doing something. I'm a bystander. I'm useless."

"Bullshit." The curses comes out of her like wildfire, and she lets it simmer and burn freely. "You don't need to sacrifice yourself for the safety of everyone else. That won't bring anyone back. That's not how this works."

"I know," he says. "But what kind of person am I if I don't try to at least make things better? Someone has to clean up after Thanos—"

"Not like this." Her gaze bores into him. He needs to hear what she isn't saying—the things she isn't sure how to say or translate from feeling to articulation.

"I don't know how else to do it." Surrender veils the edges of his face, deepens the shadows in his brown eyes.

She does everything but physically reach for him. "You'll figure it out. There are labs—there's a shortage of doctors. There's the facility…" Her head flickers back to the last time they were there together—three weeks ago. It feels like two years, the same span of time she went without him after he left her the first time, except this absence has felt worse. She now knows what it's like to sleep through the night after hell has scorched the earth, to drift into a transient nothing and awaken to him beside her and have that—not guilt, not suffocation, not persistent terror, but him—as the first thing in the day. With him, she's experienced what a new day feels like after the world as they know it ends.

He stares into the space separating them. She snaps back to the present, where he's in front of her yet just out of reach.

"You can still help people." She resists the canyon of disbelief dividing them.

He directs his response to the tile floor, "This might be the best way I have."

"It's not." He must be afraid to look at her, to see the truth in what she knows is a fact. "You're capable of so much, and that's not because of the other guy." The backs of her hands itch for the feel of him. She clenches them, releases, continues, "I didn't come here because of him. I came here for you, Bruce. You're the one people need—not Hulk."

"There could be a way to have both." He says this as though it's a solution and not the pain it inflicts upon him, the pain that crinkles his expression when he stares up at her.

"Or you could die trying, and we'd lose you. Maybe Hulk comes out and doesn't go away. Then I lose you and I can't—" The emotion slipped off her tongue, caught in the racing current that's built within her. Regret doesn't follow, but hot guilt does. This isn't the time to be selfish. She recenters. "The world can't handle another loss like that. Not now."

She cuts herself off there. Now that she's slipped a little, her whole grip shakes. What's unsaid sits in her throat, a lodged hunk of something unchewed.

"I'm sorry." He tells her this, that he's gone, she's lost him. The clutch of choking shoots up her throat, encloses on her.

And then he pulls her in. He hugs her. He's hugging her and not letting go, not turning away. He wraps her into him, cocoons her, and there's not an ounce of shame anywhere. This is the steadiest she's felt in weeks and that should be wrong, but it doesn't feel that way at all. So she wraps her arms around him too.

He murmurs again, "I'm so sorry."

Her eyelids slide shut in the giving of herself to this feeling. She says, "Let's just go." But they don't part. They don't move to leave this room. For just a few moments longer, they linger. This isn't nearly enough to fix their world, but it's a start.


End file.
